


Children of Dust and Ashes

by Monochromely



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, but now I've designated it to be a dumping ground for all of my college au pieces, expect a lot of angst bc I barely have a concept of happiness!, heck yeah, this began as a one-shot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2018-12-13 18:30:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11765838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monochromely/pseuds/Monochromely
Summary: A collection of one-shots from myGreat Comet/War and Peacecollege AU.Latest Update:"Hélène and Pierre" | 12-3-17 | A study of Hélène and Pierre's relationship. Hélène's POV.





	1. Prayer

When Natasha had been younger, her prayers had mostly been in name only—either silly little things that she and Nikolay would babble with a kind of sweet innocence or the repetitions of more serious devotions she had studied from her mother’s lips. 

Lord, please turn the snow into sugar. Amen. 

Lord, please keep your hand of protection upon all of our friends and family. Amen.

Lord, if not sugar, marshmallows would be fine as well. Amen.

And then she found God.

It was a month removed from Anatole and the poison and the night when Pierre rubbed circles into the hand that didn’t have the IV in it and told her that life would go on, dear Natasha. She was young yet, and she still had wings to soar. She found God on a Sunday morning when the priest talked about love and life and the fact that love is life in the same way that love is God. She found God when she realized that there was _so much_ of this very love inside her, threatening to overflow, simply surging through her veins. She loved Andrey and Anatole and Sonya and her papa. She loved Marya Dmitrievna and Marya Bolkonskaya. She loved Mama and Nikolay and Vera and Petya. She loved Pierre. 

Natasha learned then that prayers were not only words but also powerful expressions of the love you feel inside you, that fills you and your cup. When you pray for your friends and for your enemies, you are loving them; you are a conduit for human compassion. 

She prays seriously now.

Tonight, she prays for Pierre.

Tomorrow, she’ll pray for Pierre.

Every morning and night, she will get down on her knees and pray for him until he returns to her (or at the very least, returns to this country).

She is crumpled beside her bed in broken supplication. Her bare knees dig into the carpet. Wiry elbows press into the mattress. She temples her fingers and draws a deep breath. She loves everyone. She loves Pierre.

“Lord,” she whispers into the darkness, softly, pleadingly, “we haven’t gotten a report lately about _him_ —you know, Pierre—but I can’t help but believe in you and your mighty hand. I also can’t help but pray to you on his behalf. As he recovers, keep him safe and warm and happy. And please, Lord, bring him home soon.”

A pause. 

She tacks something on.

“Please, Lord, bring him home to me. Amen.”

Natasha loves everyone, but lately, she’s gotten an inkling that she loves Pierre in a way that she does not love just _anyone_. 

—

During the spring semester, Pierre had arranged to do a study abroad program in France. He told her a whopping two days before he left. They were sitting in their favorite corner of the campus Starbucks, sipping tall iced mochas, and his eyes—often intense, velvety with affection—never left hers for too long. 

“You’re leaving?” Natasha was shattered; she sounded shattered. At the end, her voice broke into millions of little pieces. She had depended on Pierre so much this past year, and he never failed her, was always _there_. His gentle counsel had helped her more than any therapist ever had. He couldn’t be _leaving_ , could he?

He nodded slowly, sadly. An apology shined in his face. _I’m sorry that I’m hurting you. I’m so sorry._ “I am. I… I need to get away for a bit. I’ve been feeling, um, I…”

The rest of his sentence was visible in his features, too. He was in one of his rough seasons, she guessed. _She knew._ She had always been able to pick up on his moods. In times of happiness, he was golden like the sun, and warmth suffused from him in every smile that perched itself on his lips, but this wasn’t the case, not even slightly. He was dark blue all over, and the world around him pulsated in despairing grays. There were black circles cutting into his eyes and a slight tremor in his hands. Natasha felt like shrinking into herself at these observations, wished she could escape them and what they said about Pierre, but instead, she reached out and held onto his arm. He shivered beneath her touch.

“Shh, shh—I understand,” she said and meant. “Go, fly to France! Learn some more of the language! Eat baguettes!” _Get better._

He peered at her disbelievingly. His glasses slipped down the bridge of his nose. “Are you sure?”

“Yes and no, but mostly yes,” she told him truthfully, squeezing his arm. “Go to France, Pierre. I’ll be waiting for you when you get back. Have fun!” _Get better._

Pierre went to France.

Three weeks later, the college was sent word that several students on the trip had been part of a devastating car accident. Four were dead. Six were injured. They removed shrapnel from Pierre Bezukhov’s chest that was full of cracked ribs. He had sustained a fairly severe concussion. His lung didn’t collapse, thank God, but he did develop pneumonia.

When Natasha first heard, she defied all authority and tried to purchase a ticket to Paris. When her impulses were rationalized by the joint efforts of Sonya and Marya, she prayed and prayed and prayed.

—

She is waiting—sometimes patiently, sometimes impatiently—for the day Marya Dmitrevna calls her into her office and tells her that Pierre is coming home. The rest of Natasha’s life becomes filler in relation to the expected but assured moment. Classes. Friends. Family. Whole days become scarcely remembered (or even lived) blurs. Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday. One evening, while they’re studying in the library, Sonya calls her out on it.

“You’ve been staring out of the window for a long time,” she says, gentle even in her reproach. “You’ve been staring out of a lot of windows lately.”

When Natasha turns to face her cousin, there’s a sad smile playing on her lips. “I know, and I’m sorry, but I can’t help it. I’m waiting, and waiting is a very consuming process for me.” 

_Case in point,_ she cannot help but think, _Andrey._ Her smile deepens. Her heart stings.

Less than a week later, the expected, long awaited moment comes. Marya calls her into her office after Natasha’s final class of the day (Psychology 101) and pulls her into a bone-crushing hug.

Pierre is back in the country; they’ve transported him to the local hospital for further recovery. 

—

The next day, Marya and Natasha drive to the hospital together. It’s a fine Saturday morning, and a brilliant sun crowns the orange and pink sky, slowly but assuredly melting those early colors away. They don’t talk much until they reach the parking lot of St. Petersburg Medical Center. It is only then when Marya takes her well-manicured hands off the wheel and places one on Natasha’s arm. The look in her eyes scares Natasha, and she tenses, braces for impact.

“Before we go in—” Marya is hesitant; Marya is _never_ hesitant. “—I just wanted to pass on what the doctor told me on the phone. He looks bad. He was on the side of one of the windows for God’s sake. I just want you to be prepared, alright?”

Natasha nods and gets out of the car. Andrey Bolkonsky practically died in her arms. How can she not be prepared?

Pierre’s room is on the third floor, and when they get there, Marya stays outside to talk with the doctors while Natasha is given leave to go in. She hesitates briefly at the door, fingers curled tightly around the cold handle. All of the bravado she had shown in front of her dorm advisor is gone, leached from her in the way that the moon exchanges the colors of her subjects for her own, silvery glow. _Yes, I watched Andrey die, but does that really make me prepared for this? Does his suffering mean I can see Pierre’s suffering?_ She is suddenly conscious of Marya’s eyes on her back. The awareness of someone watching her movements is enough. Natasha pushes the door open and slips in.

There are whirring machines.

There’s a TV mounted to the wall that’s playing the local news.

And there is Pierre, looking straight into her eyes.

(Yeah, he looks bad.)

(No, she doesn’t care.)

“Natasha,” he whispers, and she melts. She approaches him in a curious blend of impatience and tenderness, the result of which is her almost tripping over a wire on the floor and onto his bed, but she catches herself with a little laugh and finally makes it (or rather, staggers) into the little seat by him. When she’s settled, she leans forward and places a hand on top of Pierre’s much larger one lying limply by his side.

There are whirring machines.

There’s a TV.

Pierre is in front of her—broken and exhausted—but still Pierre. She can see it in his eyes, in the way all of the warmth and love seems to catch in the light coming from the outside window.

“You’re alive,” she says, half laughing, half choking on tears. With her free hand, she tries to wipe some of them away. “I mean, not to be morbid, but I kinda thought you were a goner.”

Pierre chuckles, and she thinks the movement hurts him because he immediately winces. “Not to be depressive, but I kinda thought I was a goner, too.” He’s still breathing shallowly, so they’ve put him oxygen. The outline of thick bandages is just visible under his thin dressing gown. He’s lost a lot of weight. Natasha can’t help but think there may have been a time when both of their musings were valid. She starts to rubs circles into his hand, just as he once had all of those many months ago, and he smiles weakly at her.

“I prayed for you every night.” _I longed for you every night._ “I kept thinking that the world would be a much darker place without you in it.”

He listens attentively; he’s always been good at that. Natasha struggles to find the words that mean the world to her right now; they’re on the tip of her tongue, but stuck there grappling for cohesion. When they finally come out, a blush spreads to the very tips of her ears. “You make me feel light, Pierre. You’re golden and warm if that makes any sense. I don’t think it does, but that’s how I feel… I mean, I missed you.”

It’s his turn to blush now; red blotchiness slowly creeps across his rounded face, settles somewhere in his beard. “I missed you, too, Natalya.” He frowns, searching for his own words now, and when he speaks again, his voice is thick with emotion.

“I had a huge piece of glass embedded in my chest. It missed my heart only by a couple of inches. They still had to take it out surgically, though.” With his other hand, he gestures to the spot. Pierre was right. Only inches away from the left side of his chest. She can see the many bandages congregated there. “The doc was a good guy. He was straight with me. He told me there was a chance I was going to die on the table… I remember closing my eyes tightly and wondering if that would be so bad.”

“It would!” Natasha interjects furiously. “Pierre Bezukhov—”

He cuts across her. “I know.”

“You know?” This, of all admissions, surprises her. She peers at him warily, almost afraid of his answer.

“Well, I do now.” Her hand is still on top of his, but now he turns his over, so that his fingers are clenched tightly over her own. This very grip entreats her to listen to him, not only with her eyes but with her heart; she can only oblige. Her eyes begin to brim once more. “It would have been bad had I died on that table because I would have died without telling the people whom I love that I love them. I would have died with something that powerful, that life-changing in my heart.”

Tears stream from beneath Pierre’s glasses; they are both crying in earnest now. Her whole frame shakes with the intensity of what she is feeling, with the happiness that is so close to sadness welling up inside her.

“I love you, Natasha,” he says. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

I love you.

The Lord had answered her prayers.


	2. Moonlight (Part One)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andrey meets Natasha on a moonlit night.

It’s forty-two degrees outside, nearly midnight, and _holy heck_ , there’s a girl sitting on a bench just outside one of the residence halls.

Andrey Bolkonsky abruptly skids to a halt and blinks in the dim light; his carryout from the local Chinese place comes to rest limply by his side, forgotten in the wake of this utter anomaly, this—for a moment, he struggles to rationalize what he’s seeing—this what must _surely_ be some sort of sleep deprived hallucination. He blinks, and yet the apparition doesn’t have the common decency to disappear. He blinks, and in the limpid night air, the girl somehow becomes registered with even more clarity than before. She is encased in a white parka that’s just a little too big for her in the sleeves. Her knees are pulled tightly to her chest, and her gloved hands are inseparably linked under them. Dark eyes glitter in the golden ambience strewn by the overhead lamppost. Her plaited hair stirs a little in the wintery play of the wind. It’s forty-two degrees, night is falling _in_ degrees, and against all rhyme and reason, there’s a girl sitting on a bench simply staring at the sky.

 _She has a lovely smile,_ he thinks despite himself, in spite of his natural disgust at the misplacement of this whole scene. _What is in her mind, and why is she so happy?_

His late dinner continues to cool beside his leg.

Andrey doesn’t want to startle her, but he doesn’t want to leave her alone out here either, so he cups a hand around his mouth and calls out to her in a raspy voice: “Aren’t you cold?” 

There is ten feet of sidewalk and piled snow between them, but for the strangest reason, it’s a breach he doesn’t quite feel in his chest, in his head, in his heart.

He could almost reach out and touch her.

He wonders what he would feel were their souls to sidle up to each other.

The girl, without losing any of her former composure, withdraws her gaze from the sky and fixes it upon him, slowly, tenderly. 

She smiles at him with all of her teeth.

And suddenly, very suddenly, Andrey finds himself unable to breathe.

_Oh, so this is what it feels like._

Without really realizing it, he takes one step, and then another, and another.

Ten feet. 

Seven feet. 

Four feet.

He’s never seen such a pretty smile before.

“I’m very cold,” she laughs, “but I couldn’t resist the sky tonight in the same way that everyone else couldn’t resist the draw of their beds. Isn’t the moon so lovely? How can anyone sleep when it’s just outside like this, waiting to be looked at? Isn’t this the most gorgeous night you’ve ever seen?”

Andrey cannot help himself. He follows her eyes upwards and upwards into the heavens where a full moon sits in the center of the night sky, sprinkled on all sides by a scattering of stars, and most unusually, without stopping to think, he allows himself to be drawn into this stranger’s world where forfeiting sleep to stargaze on an abysmally frigid night is the most natural thing a person can do in this lifetime. The night is cold, still, and bright, and Andrey Bolkonsky can feel its simple majesty swelling up inside him like a cresting wave that seemingly suspends itself in the air forever and ever before breaking. Something wet pricks at the corners of his eyes. He cannot help but think that for the first time in months, he remembers what it means to be young again, to yield to precious imagination and uninhibited emotion, to smile without studied calculation.

“I agree,” he tells her as they lock eyes once more. His voice is hoarse with emotion. He is readily drunk on the champagne of all of the beauty surrounding him: the moon, the stars, _her._ “I’m not quite sure why any person would want to miss out on this.”

At long last, he closes the unbearable distance between them and joins her on the bench; his long frozen takeout is shunted off to the side. Her shoulder brushes lightly against his own.

“My name is Natasha,” she says.

“Andrey,” he offers in return.

They sit together for the longest time, bathed in gentle moonlight.


	3. Trapped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha and Pierre are trapped in the campus library together during a tornado warning.

It's precisely ten o'clock when their phones do the thing where the alarms bypass silent mode and shrill loudly for everyone and their grandmothers to hear. Beep. Beep. Beep. _Pay attention to me!_ Beep. 

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” is all Pierre can reasonably get out as he clutches at his chest, winded and witless, half-intoxicated with the last dregs of fatigue. Before the interruption, he had almost been passed out over his textbook, head teetering precariously on his propped up elbow, propped up elbow covering a portrait of Napoleon's pinched face. The act collapsed in all its unstudied fragility as _beep, beep, beep_ shattered the sleepy silence. His chin had hit the edge of the table with a sharp thud.

It's a bit of a miracle that something stronger didn't take leave of his mouth.

Natasha, ever sensitive, ever observant, shoots her friend a sympathetic glance before reaching across him to snatch up her phone. He's easily two times her own width, so she sort of crouches in her chair for leverage, snaking her torso around him as carefully as she can manage, trying to give him space but inevitably failing. (Her stomach inexplicably tightens as her arm barely, just barely brushes against his in the transition.) The phone is collected. She extracts herself gracefully. More accidental arm brushing. (Pierre looks away for a good minute to cool the blush that had risen in his cheeks, hoping against hope that the pops of red had somehow restrained themselves to his beard.) Her brow furrows as she gives a once over to the intrusive alert, widened eyes illuminated in the soft light wash of the screen.

"Tornado warning until midnight," she announces, all weariness, the hint of a bitter smile playing on her dark lips. (The pair had been studying history in the library for most of the evening, completely oblivious to their surroundings in their isolated, little study room.) "We also got a text from the school's emergency system. _If on campus, all students must remain in their current location and follow mandatory safety protocols_. Blah, blah, important stuff, blah."

"So we're stuck here," Pierre, mostly recovered now, says. The beginnings of an ironic smile wrestle at the corner of his mouth, too. 

“Stuck indeed,” Natasha agrees with a theatric flourish. She arches her neck with a profound sigh, curls the back of her hand against her forehead. "Oh, whatever shall we do, dear Pierre?"

"Suffer," he replies dryly, "but I suppose that's always been our lot anyway, darling Natasha."

"Touché."

Natasha quickly texts the three different people who would be up in arms if she didn't check in (Sonya, Marya, and Nikolay respectively). Pierre slips out of their private room to talk to the librarian on duty, returning shortly with two blankets, a handful of mini-candy bars, and instructions to stay in a windowless area until an all-clear is given. They take a Snapchat selfie together for Natasha's story, her head resting on his shoulder, his smile endearingly gentle in the moment captured by the camera. She captions it: _Trapped in the library. Good thing I have a teddy bear to keep me company._

And then suddenly, all at once, the reality of their situation hits them. Cold water on the face. A harsh wake up slap.

They _are_ trapped in the library.

Alone but alone together, so not really alone at all. 

And it’s a different kind of togetherness from the one that had bonded them during their studying. ( _The air about the whole situation is strange_ , Natasha thinks to herself, frowning. _It's not all clear-cut. I can't see him as plainly as I once had. We were here for studying, and now we’re not._ ) It’s the togetherness of a boy and a girl being thrown into awareness of their close proximity to each other for the first time. It’s vulnerability of the highest degree, and vulnerability is not always the easiest to navigate even in the simplest of times. 

They had been there for studying, but now they’re not. The easy atmosphere in the room has subtly been exchanged for something that feels less like companionship and more like a tautened rope. Natasha is quiet. She shifts in her chair slightly to find a comfortable position again, only to discover that she feels the most comfortable facing toward to _him_. Pierre is quiet. He thumbs through his notebook once, twice, and then three times as the awkwardness builds up inside him, electrifying his nerves, transforming them into live wires. Outside the four walls of the room, thunder roars and rain like needles drum tattoos into the low roof.

"Um..." He chances a look to his side to find Natasha peering at him with those searching eyes of hers. She had always been able to catch him off guard in this very manner. "If you're tired, you could, and, uh, should relax on the couch. I don’t imagine we’ll get much studying done anymore, and we’ve been at it for awhile now.”

Fortunately, their study room is well-equipped for this kind of emergency. It's one of the more spacious ones with a table, whiteboard, and, yes, lounging sofa, where their book bags have laid abandoned all afternoon.

"You must be tired, too," she says, almost as though it's a reminder. Her dark gaze is softened as she takes him in—his disheveled head, the lines undercutting his eyes, the wrinkles embedded in his yellow sweater. She has the sneaking suspicion that he doesn’t gets much sleep when he’s sober for long streaks. “We could share the couch? Take up an end each?"

"I take up a little more than an end," Pierre smiles shrewdly, gesturing to his big body.

"And I, a little less.” She presents her skinny, little arms to him for the benefit of the argument.

"Touché." Throwing this particular word back-and-forth has always been somewhat of a habit between them as they have tended to agree more often than not over the course of their friendship. It's a gift both parties have rarely experienced in a lifetime brimming with people who struggle to understand them. Natasha is too flighty, people say. Too flirty. Too immature. Pierre is too eccentric, people whisper. Too ungainly. Too withdrawn. Their _touchés_ are nice, little reminders that they're not so alone in the world, in their thoughts and in their feelings.

When Pierre says the magic word, Natasha smiles and finds her equilibrium again.

_No, no, I can see him clearly again. He’s Pierre. He’s my friend, one of my very best._

She kicks away the sensation that _friend_ isn’t exactly the right word she wants to use for him and then kicks off her shoes, too, with impressive carelessness. One poor sandal ends up slapping the wall on the other side of the room. Pierre pries his loafers off studiously, trying to buy time in order to slow down his heartbeat and calm the nerves that must surely be playing across his face like a jangled symphony. 

 _He’s just a friend_ , Natasha tells herself, arranging her face in a wide smile.

 _Keep it together,_ Pierre thinks, taking a steadying breath.

She pushes their bags down to the floor and curls up quite compactly on one side of the couch in a couple of quick, assured movements. Blankets in one hand, candy in another, he follows with a degree of uncertainty, sitting very slowly as though he's afraid to startle her with his presence. 

"Come on, Bezukhov!" she laughs. "I won't bite. Put your legs on the—don't give me that look—couch! Yes, exactly like that!" When it's all said and done, they're both facing each other on their respective sides of the couch, knees inclined comfortably, toes just touching under the thin blankets. (Natasha could probably afford to draw into herself a little more, but she's comfortable right where she's at.)

Silence again.

Pierre runs a hand through his messy head.

Natasha turns an unopened Snickers over and over between her fingers.

_They're trapped in a library._

_Alone._

_Together._

Oh, and there’s probably a tornado somewhere outside.

_He’s just a friend._

_Keep it together._

"So I've been sleeping better lately," she ventures when the stillness becomes unbearable, too stifling, too strained, too charged with _unspoken_ meaning. Natasha doesn’t look at him when she says it, but her words land exactly where she intends them to all the same—right in the very part of his soul where she is understood by him in a way that transcends her usual clumsiness of execution, that transcends every aspect of the external world, really, because they’re communicating in a world that’s _just_ their own. It started after Anatole, when Pierre’s kind words embraced her tightly in the dimly lit hospital room, and it has continued ever since. It’s a connection she treasures more than most. ”I’ve been getting six hours instead of two, and it feels like I’ve finally found ground to stand on again, good ground, something to rebuild myself out of… I don't nightmare about _them_ as much as I used to—I mean, well, you know who I mean. Don't you?"

Pierre nods. He knows full and well who she's talking about. Andrey _and_ Anatole. They had both graduated last semester, had both opted to go straight onto military paths, too, coincidentally enough. (Not so coincidentally, though, Anatole had made sure that he was deployed _far_ away from a more-than-happy-to-meet-him-in-a-dark-alley-somewhere Andrey.)

"I know who you mean," he assures her, "and I'm glad it's gotten better. I was—we were worried for you.” He winces at his slip-up.

"We?"

"Yeah, your cousin and Marya and your parents and Nikolay... and myself. For a little while there, you weren't yourself, Nat. You were—“ Pierre hesitates, afraid to name the reality he had watched her become.

But recently, Natasha has learned that in order to move on from the past, you have to do the very thing you dread most and claim the past as your own.

"—a ghost," she finishes quietly, knowingly, her eyes sad, the light in them (that he loves so much) a little dimmer. "I know.”

She only sniffs once, but it’s enough to pierce Pierre’s heart through. Sadness swells up the column of his throat, and he swallows thickly, almost choking.

"But you're better now," he reminds her gently, sincerely, forgetting his reservations. God, how he loves this girl. (He wishes he could tell her. He wishes for _many_ things in relation to Natasha.) "You're sleeping again, laughing, talking, _smiling_. I missed that in you.”

“You did?” Her voice breaks.

“I did.” His does, too.

_They are trapped in a library._

_Alone._

_Together._

Natasha is finding it harder and harder to remember that she and Pierre are only friends.

He’s still kinda, sorta, maybe dating Hélène (who is very probably dating five other boys alongside him), and Natasha is absolutely terrified to be in a relationship again—not after what she did to Andrey, not after what she almost let Anatole do to her.

It’s complicated.

But all the same, she can’t help herself.

She smiles delicately, holds out her hand to him.

“Thank you, Pierre.”

Pierre is finding it harder and harder to keep it together in front of Natasha.

She could do better than him, he reminds himself, deserves more than what _he_ has to offer as a lover, and then there’s the problem of Hélène.

It’s complicated.

But all the same, he can’t help himself.

When she extends her hand, he takes it, holds it for a couple of seconds longer than he should.

“Anytime, Nat.”


	4. Drowning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andrey and Natasha discover Pierre after a particularly heavy night of drinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! Sorry for taking so long with an update; I actually just started college myself, and adjusting has been equal parts exhilarating and exhausting. 
> 
> In the next installment, I'm going to try to move away from angst for a bit and go with something a little more fluffier, so stay tuned for that. :)

He’s two beers in, and the sensation hasn’t left yet—the sharp coldness of his skin, the awful heaviness pressed firmly against his chest, the strange hollowness carving knots into his stomach. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wonders if this is what a drowning man feels right before he slips away; somewhere in the back of his mind, he wonders if he welcomes the thought more than he fears it. On the worst nights, he swims in his sheets and tries to catch his breath; a sob occasionally surfaces on his cracked lips. On the okay ones, he self-medicates, and he does it several times over, drinks until bliss steals over him and reprieves him of his head, drinks until the world around him just disappears. Poof. 

It’s an okay night tonight—a numb one—but he can feel the darker tendrils slowly rising from somewhere within him, threatening to choke him out, ensnaring his senses, paralyzing his nerves. His muscles are stiffening, and his heart is beginning to pant against an anxiety he has no right to claim. Two beers isn’t enough tonight.

So Pierre Bezukhov staggers over to the mini-fridge and wrenches it open a little more roughly than necessary; in the side door, water bottles clang together in jarring dissonance, and the harsh square of light glares at him scoldingly in the darkened room. He squints, grapples around for another beer, pops it open, drinks, closes the door. Darkness. Silence. The thud of his racing heart. He drinks some more.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he realizes that _he’s_ drowning himself from the inside out, plying his body with its sad, boozy tomb before he even turns twenty-one. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he realizes that he doesn’t particularly care. He’s never had the guts to imagine a life too far into the future anyway. 

All said and done, a dozen bottles litter the floor around his chair before he finally passes out, a dopey smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.

_Bliss._

The next sensation he feels is something wet pressed against his forehead and a quiet buzz of noise surrounding him with a hazy distance, and yet, a certain nearness, too. The buzz eventually distinguishes itself into voices, two or three of them, he thinks.

No, two.

He recognizes both of them with a pang.

“He can’t keep doing this,” Andrey growls. Pierre can tell that he’s pacing from the way the volume of his voice slides up and down, from the sharp footfalls deliberately striking the floor. “We’re going to come in one day and find him dead in this godforsaken chair, and there’ll be nothing I can—“

“Hush,” the second voice admonishes softly, firmly. Natasha Rostova. “I think he’s stirring a little.” 

“I don’t give a rat’s behind if he’s stirring.”

“Yes, you do, Andrey. You’re only human, despite what you may believe. Now hush.”

He doesn’t want to face the scene before him, doesn’t want to find disappointment etched in the hard lines of Andrey’s pale features, doesn’t want dear Natasha to see him this way, but he opens his eyes in the dim light anyway, and consciousness, like water breaking over his head, returns in full force. A small groan issues from behind his teeth. The inevitable headache starts its full-fledged assault on his temples. 

He blinks the room around him into clarity, and suddenly, Natasha’s smooth face is leaned over his, dark eyes etched with concern. A rag hangs limply in her hand.

“Hey,” she says, pressing the rag to his head now. The coolness does little to subside the new heat rushing up his face. ( _God, why does it have to be her?_ ) “Welcome back to the land of the living.”

“Moron,” Andrey adds helpfully. Pierre chances a look over to the side to see that his friend is leaned against the wall, arms crossed, a sour expression on his face. He meets his gaze levelly, coldly. “You’re reckless, Bezukhov, and it scares the living hell out of me.”

It’s enough to make him flinch. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard Andrey Bolkonsky admit to fear before, or, well, any other human emotion for that matter. There’s an odd gleam in his friend’s eyes that almost casts a sickly pallor over his face.

“I know,” Pierre replies, swallowing thickly. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth. “I… I guess I don’t know how to be anything else.”

Andrey unbends, just a little, just enough for him to see; his arms uncross and settle deep into his pockets. The odd gleam grows even brighter. “I know.”

More coolness. More wetness. Natasha recaptures his attention once again as she dabs away the sweat from his forehead. He stares at her pleadingly, begs forgiveness with half-open lips.

“I don’t want you to see me like this, Nat,” he mumbles. “M’sorry.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have it any other way,” she says, smiling sadly, tenderly. That’s the thing about Natasha; her heart can’t help but dance across her features, a never-ending ballet whose audience is all who come in contact with her. When she smiles, you know she means it. When she smile sadly, you know she cares. “You’re my friend, Pierre, and I’m always here for you. In your highest of highs and your lowest of lows, I’m _here_.”

She jerks a thumb in Andrey’s direction. “And sourpuss over there is here for you, too. He almost wrenched the door open when you wouldn’t answer. I had to remind him that he had a key.”

“You’re exaggerating,” Andrey scoffs.

“And you’re fooling nobody,” she grins, and Pierre cannot help but smile. She dabs the washcloth gently against his brow, drops a small kiss in the spot she wiped. “Ah, there’s my Pierre—my sweet, sweet, Pierre. But listen now, you reek of beer, and you could use a bit more sobering up. Help him into the shower, Andrey?”

“If I have to.” But everyone is in on the act; Andrey is more bark than bite. He detaches himself from the wall and helps Pierre up, offers him a shoulder to lean on, and as they hobble to the bathroom, slowly, heavily, a different line of thought captures him by surprise.

He’s drowning and drowning fast, but somewhere in the back of his mind, he realizes he’s got a little more left to give in him yet. He looks at Andrey, at his hard lines and gleaming eyes, and then back at Natasha, at her inflexible warmth and sad smile, and somewhere in the back of his mind, knows that there is something rooting him here for a few more days to come.

“It’s getting harder,” Pierre admits when they’re out of earshot from Natasha, when Andrey has leaned him against the dinky bathroom counter. He’s hoarse and exhausted, and yet, desperate to give voice to the nightmare inside his head, inside his heart. He wants Andrey to know; he feels like it’s a first step towards _something_.

Andrey’s back is turned to him as he knobs the shower on. For a moment, there is nothing but the hiss of the heating water, but eventually, the scratchy voice he knows so well enters into the fray, measured, tautened.

“When we came in and you were sprawled in that chair,” he says, “I didn’t want to look at you. You were deathly still. Your arms were limp. I could feel a kind of maddening insanity roaring up in my ears. But Natasha was there. I held myself together. I checked your pulse. You were alive, and I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.”

When Andrey turns to face him again, his face is twisted with unwilling emotion, contorted and pinched, agonized. His hands are white fists by his sides, clenching and unclenching.

“I know it’s hard, Pierre. I know it’s always been hard for you, but, don’t give up. Not yet. Alright?”

Who is he to argue?

“Alright.”


	5. Cuddles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt (southernjohnlaurens):** pierretasha cuddles, Pierre is big and warm and Natasha loves to cuddle with him

A month and then some had passed since Pierre had first made it back to the States (alive but not entirely in one piece), and with a weary smile on his gnarled face, one rainy Tuesday eve, the good doctor finally tells him that he’s ready to be discharged. 

Well, _almost_.

But almost is good enough.

“Just one more night for observation,” he says, withdrawing his stethoscope from under Pierre’s _Star Wars_ sweatshirt. A perfectly circular portion of his skin is cold where the bell had lingered right next to his heart, right next to ugly scar that once mounted a piece of glass shrapnel. Sometimes, when he gets a good look at it in the bathroom mirror, he can’t help but feel miraculous. Inexpressible relief swells up the column of his throat. Sometimes, eyes trained on the reflection of his mending body, hands cupped tightly on the sink, Pierre revels in the simple joy of being _alive_ —in every sense of the word. He’s never quite known that pleasure before. “There’s a little bit of rattling on the left side of your chest, but it’s not terrible. We’ll continue to administer medicine in your IV, and it should clear up by tomorrow. Sound good to you?”

“Sounds perfect, Doc,” he replies, glancing over at Natasha. She’s curled up in her usual spot in the chair next to his bed, feet tucked beneath her, hands lost in her sleeves. She winks at him in return, a satisfied smile perched on her lips. “What’s another day, y’know?”

“Nothing at all, Mr. Bezukhov. You’ll be home before you know it.” He pats his arm once before leaving, and it’s an immediate cue for Natasha to assume her other usual spot, which is on the bed curled up next to Pierre’s side, leaning into his warmth, his largeness, into the way he feels like home. The door gently thuds to a close just as she’s arranged herself under the now bunched sheets, her socked feet scraping against his, a careless arm thrown around his midsection, head sidled against his shoulder. 

She smells like flowers, like honeysuckle, like lilac.

 “There we go,” she laughs, craning her neck to press a quick kiss on his cheek. “Not to complain, but the stiffness of that chair has quite worn out its use. I much prefer cuddling with you, ya big ole teddy bear.”

Pierre smiles, arches a teasing eyebrow at her. “Oh, yeah? And here I thought you were just using me as a source of warmth.”

“Well, that, too, but you’re also very soft, my dear Pierre.” She pretends to be thoughtful for a moment, tightens her grip around his belly, and he’s a remarkably ticklish person, so he can’t help but chuckle. “Squishy.”

 “I must be the total package then.”

“Indeed,” Natasha agrees seriously. “If you were on Craigslist, I’d order your so fast your Internet browser would get whiplash.”

It’s an absurd thing to say, and they both know it, both recognize it with a shared grin. He leans down, presses his forehead against her own as their bodies tremble in intoxicating mirth. The bed shakes with it. Their hearts are overflowing.

“I’m flattered, Nat.”

“You should be. I don’t waste my non sequiturs on just anyone.”

When they can finally breathe again, chests heaving with a pleasant kind of weariness, Pierre leans his head back against the pillow and stares up at the long strip of florescent light glaring down at him. It’s a familiar sight, but soon, it won’t be anymore. He’s going home tomorrow, exchanging IVs and an endless revolving door of nurses for… for something better. He peers at Natasha, who meets his gaze with the smile he loves so much, the one that tugs at his heart, draws him closer to hers. He’s going home, he thinks, all tenderness, bursting with love, to something entirely new. 

“Whatcha thinking about with your brow all creased up like that?” she asks softly. Her hand is nestled firmly on his chest.

“Tomorrow,” he replies. 

And the next day and the next.

The future has never looked so bright before.


	6. Chapel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha gets worried after Mary Bolkonskaya suddenly goes missing.

Mary Bolkonskaya’s Honda Accord is still sitting in the parking lot of the hospital. It’s an older model but well kept up—quiet, gray, and unassuming—not unlike its owner. Natasha recognizes it from the University of Moscow tag hanging placidly from the rearview mirror and from the assorted memories of watching the little slip of a thing get in and out of the same vehicle a dozen times over, a pinched expression often caught between her pale eyebrows. A familiar sweater has been neatly folded over the back of the passenger seat. 

Nothing’s wrong, except that it is. The sight of it, all of it—the sweater, the tag, the empty car—freezes Natasha, stops her cold in her tracks.

The thing is, Mary had said she was leaving hours ago—had to go attend to some things back at home, she had explained, her whole body an uncomfortable apology.

So her car shouldn’t be here.

At the very least, her car shouldn’t be here empty.

And maybe it’s none of Natasha’s business. 

Maybe she should just shrug her shoulders and go on to her own car.

It’s not like she and Mary are friends.

It’s not like they haven’t passively aggressively despised each other since their first meeting.

But still…

Natasha shakes her head and pirouettes lightly, going back the way she had came. The hospital is brightly lit against the rapidly decaying sky. She scrolls through her phone as quickly as her trembling fingers will allow, looking for a number she’s never had to call.

… Mary Bolkonskaya’s car shouldn’t be here.

The first call goes to voicemail.

_“Please leave a message at the tone,”_ instructs Mary’s soft voice.

“Hey, Mary,” she says, nodding quickly at the receptionist as she reenters the atrium of the building. She tries and fails to keep the rising panic out of her voice. “Listen, I noticed your car is still out front of the hospital. Are you okay? Call me back.”

She’s on the elevator when she tries again, impatiently tapping her foot to the vibration of the phone ringing. Deeply puritanical nature aside, it’s not as though the girl just _doesn’t_ use her phone. Just this afternoon, Natasha had spent a good ten minutes watching as she played some kind of bear fighting game obsessively until she beat it.

(“Oh, my,” she had whispered at one point, pale eyes widening. “The bear has acid in his honey pot.”)

“ _Hello, you’ve reached Mary. Sorry I couldn’t…”_ With a frustrated growl, she cuts the call short as the elevator admits her to the fourth floor, where Andrei’s room is.

Except Mary can’t be in Andrei’s room because Natasha just came from there and only after a nurse had told her that visitation hours were over.

Third time’s the charm… she hopes. She presses call, lets the insistent buzz press hard into her ear. Each time it hums in its entirety, a new thrill of dread collapses down her spine.

Her converses snap quickly against the white tiled hall as she feverishly passes door after door. The bright strips of florescence glare down at her from above, highlighting her shaking hands, her jerky steps.

_“Hello, you’ve reached Mary. Sorry I couldn’t answer the phone. If you would, please leave a message at the tone.”_

“Hey, it’s me again. I’m sorry for bugging you, but I’m getting really worr—” Natasha suddenly stops and clicks her phone off, transfixed by the door in front of her. It’s halfway open, and golden light spills from the room onto the tiles, submerging them in a brightness, a warmth.

The silver label on the door gleams at her invitingly, winks at her in confirmation.

She had forgotten that there was a chapel on the fourth floor.

There’s a good chance that devout Mary Bolkonskaya hadn’t.

(Granted, if her supposition is wrong, she’s totally jumping the shark, gun, and whatever else can be jumped and calling 911 on _Mother Theresa’s_ scrawny derrière.)

Natasha replaces her phone in her pocket and eases into the door, her muscles instantly relaxing as the gentle ambience of the room washes over her, soothing her, restoring her. It’s a small chapel, offering only the essential trifecta—a couple of pews, a tiny altar, and an icon of Jesus staring down from the wall—but it’s just the right size to possess the lone figure sitting in the front row. Mary’s head is lowered in prayer, her flaxen hair gently dripping down the curvature of her thin face. 

Natasha draws closer, steps muffled by the thin carpet beneath her, and every movement forward reveals Andrei’s sister in new detail.

Her slender fingers are templed together on her knees, thumbs inclined in the way of a steeple. Her lips are moving in silent invocation, willowy body swaying with each susurrant syllable. And assuredly it’s just a trick of the light, but Natasha fancies that Mary Bolkonskaya is _glowing_ , suffused with holy radiance. Luminous. Beautiful. Divine. And struck by these fantastic impressions, she wonders how she had ever thought her to be _plain_. 

Natasha stills herself at the end of the pew, knuckles lightly skimming the smooth grain of the wooden armrest, producing a low, plaintive note that catches Mary’s attention. She suddenly looks up and at her, silver eyes brilliant with melancholy and curiosity, and _curiously_ , without any of the disdain of their first meeting (and second and third and fourth).

“Hello, Natasha.” Her voice has always had a distant quality to it, as though it has been sieved of its earthliness. “What brings you here?”

Natasha shrugs her hand across the back of her neck and laughs, a little too loudly, a little hysterically, overwhelmed with relief. “I’ve been looking for you actually. I got worried when I saw that your car was still in the parking lot. It’s almost night now.”

“Oh.” She sounds surprised. A faint pinkness scribbles itself across her cheeks. “That was very sweet of you.”

“It was no big deal.” It’s her turn to blush now. She joins Mary on the pew, pointedly looking away from her and her big, sad eyes. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay, which, um,” she laughs again, “you obviously are.”

Mary is silent for a moment, contemplative, and when she finally replies, her voice is even and measured, not at all adapted to what actually comes out of her mouth.

“I’m not sure that I am,” she murmurs. 

It’s a quiet admission.

An unexpected one.

It prods Natasha on the shoulder sharply and commands her full attention; she stares at Andrei’s sister with widened eyes.

Mary’s smooth face is reflected back at her, calm and stoic, devoid of emotion.

Except _her_ eyes.

Her eyes can’t keep a secret.

They’re seized with agony, storming with it.

“I don’t think Andrei is going to make it,” she whispers, and it’s the most _present_ , the most _involved_ Natasha has ever heard her to be. Her teeth seem clenched. The church in her fingers has collapsed into tremors. “I think each passing hour takes him away from us a little more. I think he’s ready to go… but _I’m_ not ready to let go. It’s selfish, but I’m desperately frightened of being alone.”

Natasha is helpless as a single, divine tear slips down Mary’s face and into her shattered hands.

And maybe this is her cue to leave.

Maybe she should just slip out of the chapel, give her space, give her time to collect.

Because she doesn’t know what to say.

Because she knows exactly what _not_ to say.

_You won’t be alone_ is a hypothetical at best, a lie at worst.

But walking away has never been a strength of Natasha’s.

Empty cars in hospital parking lots.

Empty girls sitting in dusty pews.

So she places her own hand in one of those upturned palms and lets her fingers fill the gaps that grief had left behind. There’s a temple again, not quite standing, not quite unbroken, but it glows in the golden light.

It takes a few moments, but eventually, Mary squeezes back.


	7. Hélène and Pierre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A study of Hélène and Pierre's relationship. Hélène's POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally _so much_ shorter, but then I really got into writing Hélène.

 

She extracts herself from Natasha’s accusations coolly—shoulders stiffened, painted smile sharp enough to cut yourself on.

_So be careful, little girl_ , she thinks viciously, eyes narrowed, tongue roiling in her mouth like a snake preparing to strike. _I bite._

“Thanks, my _dear_ , but if I’m not mistaken, and I don’t believe I am, my relationship with Pierre is none of your business.” She pauses and arches a knowing brow. Because despite what the world may believe, Hélène isn’t stupid. She sees the looks that pass between Pierre and Natasha. The longing in his dark, velvety eyes. The sweet pining in hers. “Or is it?”

Those three words have their intended effect.

Little Natasha Rostova, all fire and rage and passion and fury, extinguishes before her in an instant. Walks away without another word. Trembling. 

Hélène does not forgive.

If it weren’t for _her_ , then Anatole would still be in the country and not somewhere in Europe learning about guns and wars and all of the other things that get a spoiled fool like him killed.

_But_ she also does not forget, and the ghosts of Natasha’s words keep her up that night.

She paces the soft carpet in her room, back and forth, back and forth, her manicured toes curling into the plush wool with each uneasy step.

She downs a couple of sleeping pills.

And thinks about texting Pierre.

Choosing not to in the end because she doesn’t know what to say to him.

Where to even begin.

_I know I’m not your favorite person in the world, and this won’t change your mind about that… but, listen, Hélène, you treat Pierre very horribly, and he’s miserable, and he’s blue and gray all over, and he’ll never tell this to you, so that’s why I’m here. He’s a good guy. Don’t you know that? Don’t you care?_

She braces herself against the nightstand and suddenly finds it hard to breathe.

_Don’t you know that?_

Her fingernails sink into the wood.

_Don’t you care?_

—

Seeds on already thorny ground. That’s how their relationship began anyway.

He’d just lost his father and inherited millions of dollars in return.

And _her_ father insisted that she be the one to comfort him.

So she did that.

She batted her eyes and wore tight shirts around him.

Smeared on her most suggestive lipstick.

Told him that he was special and handsome and all of the other empty pleasantries in-between.

Made him feel loved.

Because she could see that was what he truly wanted.

A heart to belong in.

A hand to hold.

She could give that to him.

Or, at the very least, she could pretend to.

He fell for her.

She calculated what it looked like to fall.

And so Hélène and Pierre became a thing.

—

The first month of their relationship was nice in the way that new relationships often are. There weren’t any obligations to be serious, to confess love, to talk about the future. There was just _dating_ —a whole lot of it—and very expensive dating it was. She wanted nothing but the best, and he gave it to her willingly. He took her to the finest restaurants in and around the city. They shopped stupidly extravagant places and purchased stupidly extravagant things. He bought her any necklace she looked upon with so much as a smile and rented penthouse suites in five-star hotels for their nightly amusements. 

It was fun.

Effortless. 

Easy.

Until one night, while they were lying in a bed that probably could have bought someone’s tuition, Pierre maneuvered his arm around her waist when he thought she was asleep and said, “I love you.”

And it wasn’t a casual kind of _I love you_.

The kind you sock around playfully.

The kind she utilized against boys foolish enough to give her their hearts.

He said it very softly, very simply, like he intended on saying it again and again, perhaps even for an eternity.

It was not a weapon on his tongue.

It was a promise.

_You don’t even know me,_ she wanted to tell him. She kept her eyes closed instead. Turned away from his heavy embrace. _I am not what you think._

—

She was good undoubtedly, but she wasn’t _that_ good, and as the weeks dredged on, slinking forward like chains dragging across dusty ground, her perfect falsity of being began to show signs of distress. She could no longer feign interest with his books or his studies and derided him for having his nose pressed into yellowed pages all of the time.

_The world outside is turning, Pierre, and you’re too lazy to turn with it._

She said that to him.

She really freaking did.

And his face collapsed for days.

She pressed glasses of wine into his clumsy fingers just to get him to shut up about Russian history.

She pressed vodka into his hands when her friends were around and wanted to see the drunken fool perform.

The nice moments came fewer and far-between.

When they went on dates— _if_ they went on dates—it was more of a transaction than romance.

A nice, expensive night on the town for Hélène and sex for Pierre.

When they finished, they would turn their backs to one another and _not_ whisper confessions of love… or anything else for that matter. Those nights were silent, stretched taut like a rubber band that had long been pulled from its original shape. She would stare at the wall, and he, the window, where the silver stars outside regarded them coldly.

In the public eye, they played their parts well enough.

They were a cute couple.

Hélène must be a saint for taking on poor, awkward Pierre.

That’s what they said anyway.

—

By the sixth month of their relationship, she no longer had to ply him with alcohol.

He provided for himself.

And one day (but not _just_ that one day), she found him in his dorm surrounded by dozens of empty bottles. His glasses were teetering on the bridge of his nose, and his large belly was spilling over his belt. A half-empty Corona sweated in his hand.

“You’re drunk again,” she snarled, and resentment like bile tensed her entire body, curling her nerves upwards, shaping the sharpness of her voice. Hélène placed her hands on both hips and all but demanded that he recognize her high, high horse. “I suppose that’s nothing new, though. You’re always—”

He threw his Corona at her head, missing by inches.

—

So why did she stay?

That was the question her friends asked when she told them of Pierre’s drunken temper, when she exaggerated the crazed look in his eyes, when she shrunk herself before them just to make him look monstrous.

So why did she stay?

That was what Dolokhov asked her after they finished a few rounds one night. He caressed her face, his calloused fingers gentle as they went. Even in the darkness, his brown eyes gleamed—all mischief, everything delinquent. He whispered seductive words into her ear, told her that he could give her more than that fat loafer ever could. Told her that they were alike, she and him—both wolves that paraded among sheep, and wolves had to stick together.

So why did she stay?

She grappled with that same question in her own head and convinced herself that she stayed for Pierre’s money, for the power she wielded over him.

But Hélène Kuragina is not stupid.

Money and power are the most common commodities in the world.

—

It was raining as they were walking to their shared sociology lecture. The sky drew an iron gray curtain around them, and the autumn winds cut into her arms, her face, her eyes. She had left her rain jacket in the dorm and the umbrella Pierre held over them did little to keep her from shivering. 

He was often oblivious but not always.

He stopped them halfway and shrugged off his own jacket, draped it around her shoulders like a cape. It was warm, and it smelled like his cologne.

“You’ll catch a cold,” he said and smiled kindly at her.

—

He was better, less withdrawn, more _present_ in the world, when he took his antidepressants… but he wasn’t the best at remembering to take them.

So she would remind him.

Sometimes harshly.

But other times, she would take him in—his disheveled hair, the purple bruises of sleepless nights under his eyes, the way his fingers would shake around his coffee mug—and resentment would give way to… something else.

“Make sure to take your medicine, alright?”

It was a little thing, but it made a difference.

—

She stays for the nice moments.

For the rainy days and proffered jackets.

For the quiet reminders that (surprisingly) pass from her lips on his bad days.

For the way he’s softened even her edges.

For the fact that he’s never once refused to help her study.

For that time they binge watched _Parks and Recreation_ together, and their laughter shook the walls of his dorm.

For his gentle smile that he shyly offers her for time to time.

For the stability he represents in her life.

Because the thing is, when Pierre can get past the demons perpetually having a house party in his head, he is innately nice and smart and everything _good_.

And Héléne isn’t stupid.

She knows that’s something you just don’t let slip through your fingertips.

So she weaves her web around him and spins her lies, and he probably thinks it’s a dark skein that’s got him all tangled up on the inside, but what he really doesn’t know, is that Hélène is building her safety net.

Desperately, yes.

But that’s all she got.

She stays for the nice moments.

Because, really, she’s never quite had them before.

—

They’re sitting in sociology the next evening, and Professor Ilyich is droning on about something or another; it’s an evening class, and no one is really paying attention… well, except for Pierre.

Pierre always pays attention.

Hélène keeps shifting glances his way, and he doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does, he’s doing a good job of hiding it. She taps her fingers nervously against her desk. Looks his way. His dark brow is furrowed in concentration. Makes a few scratch marks in her notebook, knowing she’ll ultimately just copy _his_ notes for the exam. Looks at him again. His blue pen is moving across his own notebook fluidly; he has a pretty scrawl. His y’s and g’s loop elegantly. 

_He’s a good guy._

_Don’t you know that?_

_Don’t you care?_

Ilyich dismisses them five minutes after he was _supposed_ to dismiss them, and Pierre and Hélène leave Ivan Hall together.

They don’t hold hands.

They don’t do that anymore.

“You okay, Hélène?” They’re descending the steps. “You don’t look as though you feel well.”

And here’s another thing about Pierre.

He always looks a person in the eye when he talks to them.

And he has beautiful eyes—they are the brown of an ancient forest, old and steady.

“Just tired,” she murmurs. “I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

He accepts the explanation with a nod, and now they’re on the sidewalk, dead in the middle of all of the other kids streaming from building. The crowd carries them towards the campus green, and she hurriedly rushes out her next words before he decides to go one way or another, leaving her behind... or just leaving her.

“Walk me back to my dorm, maybe? I have some a bottle of Moscato that could use drinking.”

It’s an out-of-place question for her, for them, for the current state of their relationship, and Pierre raises an inquiring eyebrow, studies her with learned apprehension, the very same she has taught him to have for her. Could this be a trick? A new game for her to play?

Far from it.

It’s Natasha Rostova’s bitten words ringing in her ears.

It’s the wrongness percolating in her stomach.

Maybe it’s even the beginning of her retribution.

And perhaps he can see that for himself because he shrugs his fingers through his hair, bites his lip.

“Yes…” he finally says. “I would like that.”

She offers him her hand, and he takes it.

Perhaps, though, she would be the better person if she just _let go_.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I appreciate every Kudos or comment that comes my way.
> 
> Feel free to send me prompts!


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